


Winning A Weasley

by Maloreiy



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst and Feels, F/M, S&R:CRW
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-20
Updated: 2018-06-20
Packaged: 2019-05-25 19:49:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14984315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maloreiy/pseuds/Maloreiy
Summary: Pansy is not afraid to do something drastic to get what she wants.1st Place Winner of Round 3 of the 2018 Death by Quill Writing Challenge, hosted by The Slytherin Cabal.





	Winning A Weasley

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by [TheSlytherinCabal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSlytherinCabal/pseuds/TheSlytherinCabal) in the [DBQ2018Round3](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/DBQ2018Round3) collection. 



> **Prompt:** Pansy and George.
> 
> This story was originally written for Round 1 of the 2018 Death by Quill Writing Challenge, hosted by The Slytherin Cabal. The theme was **Silencio (Silence)** , and the pairing/characters I chose were **Pansy Parkinson & George Weasley**. All stories had a word limit of 3500 words.
> 
> This story won 1st place out of 5 competitors, and allowed me to move on to the final round, Round 4. See my other works for my final Round 4 Entry, and for my previous two entries.
> 
> With thanks to Ariel Riddle, my faithful Alpha, who supported all my weird pairing ideas and helped me to decide on something I could really work with.

Pansy Parkinson always figured it would come to this.

Fortunately, she’s prepared.

A perverse part of her enjoys the way his handsome face grows pinched with irritation as the Silencio settles over him. For some reason, not being able to speak makes him even more irritated than the Incarcerous ropes that prevent him from moving.

She wants to laugh, but her nerves are stretched far too tight for the humor of the situation to bleed through.

This is a pivotal moment in her life.

The fear quivers along her spine, threatening to overwhelm her, and she tries to squash it back down.

She remembers the feeling from the last pivotal moment in her life—that infamous time when she’d called for Potter to be given to Voldemort; the time that had, in a roundabout way, brought her to _this_ time.

* * *

After the war, Pansy’s father was imprisoned. She and her mother, neither of whom had fought in the Battle, became outcasts, completely stripped of wealth and influence.

They’d been expected to get jobs in order to become ‘contributing members of society.’ Some of Mrs Parkinson’s old friends had taken pity on her and quietly offered her a constant supply of small redecorating tasks.

But no one would take Pansy. Pansy had directly betrayed the Wizarding World’s greatest hero, and not even a menial task like de-gnoming a garden could be found for her.

That is, until the man in front of her—who is technically still her boss even now that he's tied up and silenced—had shown up in the office at the Ministry and offered her a job.

She’d been accustomed to sitting in that office all day long, waiting for a job, so it was a shock to her when one was offered. Not just because of the offer, but because of the man who was extending it.

The blazing red hair and freckles marked him as a Weasley, one of the twins she’d known in school.

Since everyone knew which one of the twins had died in the Battle of Hogwarts, she’d had no trouble identifying this one.

_George Weasley_ had offered her, Pansy Parkinson, a job at his family joke shop.

“Looking for a shopgirl,” he’d said, far too brightly. “We have too many jokesters already, we need someone stern to keep the customers in line. Preferably someone with no sense of humor at all, and maybe a pinched look of disapproval, yeah?” He’d made a show of looking around the empty room. “You suppose that’d be you?”

She’d wanted to say no. _Oh_ , how she’d wanted to say no. Her? At a joke shop? Working for a Weasley? It was impossible.

But the days stretched out before her, ugly and empty, with the boring four walls of the room she waited in every day.

So what she’d said was, “I suppose so.”

The Auror in charge of her case, who coincidentally had a similar head of fire-red hair, had told her, “Don’t know what made him do it. It’s not like our family isn’t big enough to have asked one of us. But don’t make him regret it. And _don’t_ talk about Fred.”

George is probably regretting hiring her right about now, if the look in his eyes is anything to go by.

But she hopes not. She desperately hopes that he doesn’t regret any of it.

* * *

 It had begun, as these things often do, quite unexpectedly.

Despite his jocular manner that day at the Ministry, George was no longer the same mischievous Gryffindor that she’d known in school. Like so many after the war, he was troubled; irritable, pensive, sometimes staring into windows and mirrors like he could see something no one else did.

In front of customers, he was cheerful and bright, sly and witty. When working on new products, he was focused and brilliant. With his family, whenever they came in to check on him, which they often did, he was quiet and reserved, warm and affectionate.

With her, he was…distracted and moody, impatient and anxious.

It took her a few weeks, but she finally figured out that it was because he’d been used to having his brother with him at the shop. Then, he’d been used to being alone. Now, there was an extra person around, the _wrong_ person, and he could never just be _alone_ with his feelings when the memories of the war surfaced and threatened to overtake him.

When she’d realized that her presence was the problem, she started making excuses to take breaks.

George was a good boss. He never asked too much from her, he always stood behind her decisions with troublesome customers, and most importantly, he never _once_ brought up that moment in the Great Hall.

So, appreciating all he’d done for her, she’d time her breaks for those moments when she could see the anxiety surfacing on his face. By the time she returned from window-shopping in Diagon Alley, he was usually back to normal.

But one day, she came back after taking an extra long stroll—because George had seemed to need it, but also, a shopkeeper had actually invited her in to look at something, and she’d been so excited at the welcome that she’d lost track of the time—to find that George was actually worse.

The empty shop was eerie with the brightly colored products on the shelves contrasting with the high-pitched sounds of someone sobbing.

Quietly, she’d turned off the shop lights, to make sure no customers came in, and made her way towards the back room, stopping just short of the threshold.

She could just see him, hunched over at his workbench.

In her pocket was a slip of paper that had instructions on what to do in case of an emergency. She was supposed to call one of _them_. Then they’d all descend on the place, en masse, a mob of offensively red hair and loud voices.

She wouldn’t deny that he always seemed better after those ‘Infusions of Family,’ as they called it.

Somehow, though, she thought what he really needed was just some space.

So she’d sat outside the room, her back against the doorjamb where he couldn’t see her, and she fingered that paper in her pocket. When a customer came knocking, she muffled the sounds so they wouldn’t reach him.

Slowly, it became a routine, as his breakdowns seemed to increase more and more as they got closer to the anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts.

Then, one day he’d caught her by surprise. He barreled out of the room and found her sitting on the floor, the shop lights off.

“Just lazing about instead of doing the work I pay you for?” he’d joked rudely, though the thickness in his voice was more sad than offensive.

She’d calmly replied back to him, “I’m on my break.”

He was smart, so smart, much smarter than she could ever be, she reckoned. So he’d heard the truth.

Eventually he nodded, and announced that he was going to close up the shop for the rest of the day.

As she stood up to dust herself off, preparing to leave, he added, “Feel free to stay or go, as it suits you.”

And while she may not be that smart, she _was_ a Slytherin, and Slytherins were used to hearing the meaning behind the words. So she heard the ‘Thank You’ that he didn’t say.

At the time, she’d sensed that it was a beginning. But she hadn’t known it was _the_ beginning.

* * *

George’s shaggy hair is slanted across his face, reminding Pansy that he’s really due for a haircut. She likes to pretend the problem is the large volume of bright red that offends her, but it’s really the way those renegade locks obscure his beautiful brown eyes.

All of his brothers have light eyes, which can make them seem cold. But George’s eyes are soft and friendly. Looking into those eyes—watching them warm with affection, light up with mischief, or heat with desire—is one of her very favorite things.

She sighs as she brushes the hair back from his face.

Being attracted to George Weasley had been so ridiculously unexpected. She’d tried to deny it, had chalked it up to the incredible loneliness that was her life at the time. She’d been shocked— _thrilled_ —when she learned that he felt the same. Somewhere in between the practical jokes, the late-night product brainstorming sessions, and the long afternoon breaks when they’d both found a surprisingly sympathetic shoulder to cry on…they’d fallen in love.

She only hopes he loves her as much as she loves him.

“I’m sorry for all the drama,” she tells him, crouching down. She knows not to underestimate his ability to circumvent spells and bindings, and so keeps herself and her wand well out of reach.

She sighs again. “I have some really important things to say, and this was the only way to make you listen. You’ve been avoiding this for months now. I thought you just needed a little more space, a little more time, but I can’t—” Her voice suddenly feels like it’s being squeezed through a pinhole. She takes a second to swallow it back. “I just can’t anymore.”

George tilts his head, the irritation fading from his face, and Pansy knows she has his attention.

“It’s time to talk about _us_. And about the thing that has been hanging over our relationship since the very beginning.” She takes a deep breath. “George, it’s time to talk about Fred.”

George recoils, as far as one can when bound, like she's just slapped him.

Immediately, she regrets the words. She lacks the innate charm of the smooth-talker in front of her, so where'd she'd meant them to be gentle, they came out hard and blunt.

She holds her hands up, trying to stave off a renewed struggle to free himself. “Just listen for a minute. Please.”

He doesn’t answer, of course. There’s only the silence, and her own heartbeat thumping hard in her chest.

“I love you, George. I do. So much. And I’ve seen how hard it’s been on you, since losing your brother.”

Those brown eyes look away from her, breaking that contact she needs. He doesn’t mind talking about his memories. But he hates talking about Fred’s death. He hates talking about the big gaping hole in his soul that he used to share with his twin.

“But you’re stuck in a rut,” she continues. “Every time you seem ready to move forward with something in your life, you take two steps backward. You have plans, so many big plans, and then they don’t go anywhere. Everything’s ready for that second shop, everything but you.”

Tiredly, he shakes his head. She knows what his argument is. He just can’t picture doing it without Fred.

And that’s always the problem.

“This isn’t about the store.” Pansy can’t afford to get sidetracked now. “It’s about us. I thought I was content to just…enjoy what we have. I thought it was enough. But as the days and the weeks and the months wear on….George, it’s been three _years_ now. Your mum keeps pressing me for hints, but everyone else seems to think we’re just this casual, temporary thing. Scandalous gossip about how George Weasley is fucking his shopgirl.”

He lifts his head at those words, golden fire in those expressive eyes.

“It’s not important who said that.” She dismisses his obvious question with a wave of her hand. “My point is that—” Her damn throat closes up again, and she has to swallow to remind herself of all the things she’s been wanting to say.

“My point,” she repeats, “is that I’m more than that. _We_ are more than that. I want us to move forward. To do _something_ , to go _somewhere_. Our relationship is stuck, just like your business plans, on the idea that you can’t move forward without Fred Weasley.”

George narrows his eyes at her, and she knows he wants to say something, but she’s not done yet.

“I know you think you’re not ready to talk about the future. But I need to know that this—what we have—means as much to you, as it does to me. I need to know that there is _a_ future here for us.” She looks at him, at that face she loves—those eyes that are always her undoing, and her heart squeezes in her chest.

“Because I want a future.” Futilely, she wipes at the tears that start welling in her eyes. “George, I want one with you—so much. And I can’t keep waiting forever, wondering if I’m just a temporary amusement. A crutch to get you through a difficult time.”

His head is shaking vehemently now, but she doesn't stop— can't stop—because the fears are spilling out of her mouth faster than she can keep track of them.

“Your Slytherin charity case.” Her voice breaks. “Or just another one of your jokes.”

She was terrible at this. There was a reason Slytherins didn't lay their hearts bare in emotional declarations of love. It hurt like hell, and it sounded like shit. She couldn't have fallen for some sensible Ravenclaw, or an intuitive Hufflepuff?

“I’m not trying to replace your brother, George. I know he can never be replaced, that there will never be someone to fill that place in your heart. I just want to be _another_ person in your heart. I just want my own place. I need you…I need you to decide that moving forward with me is more important than waiting, always waiting, as if Fred’s going to come back. He’s not going to come back.” The tears filling her eyes completely obscure her view. Her throat is raw. “But I’m here. I’m here, waiting for you.”

She fumbles around in the pockets of her robe. It’s unconventional, and some would argue that it’s the wrong time, but Pansy isn’t holding anything back. One way or another, she’ll have her answer today.

She finds the little black box and she pulls it out. Conveniently, she’s already on her knees, but it takes her a minute to open it. She can’t see through the tears that are dripping onto her robes. Every time she blinks them away, new ones take their place, and her hands are shaking so hard she’s actually afraid she’ll break the box.

Finally, the top opens, and she holds it out to the love of her life and the bane of her existence.

“George Weasley,” she says, her breath hitching with the nerves that are screaming through her, “will you marry me?”

The question echoes in the room.

Her eyes are squeezed shut. She can’t bear to look up at his face, because she’s afraid that if she sees the rejection there, her heart will shatter into pieces on the floor.

The silence stretches out, and Pansy can’t seem to find her breath.

Gently, a hand closes over hers, supporting the box she’s holding. Looking up, she finds George kneeling in front of her.

The cagey bastard must have found a way out of the ropes.

The thought of the spell reminds her that she never removed the Silencio so that George could give his answer, and she fumbles with her wand to release him.

Without a word, he gathers her into him.

“You’re right,” he says, when he finally speaks. “You're right. About everything, you're right. Of getting married without… without Fred. I kept telling myself I just needed a little more time.”

His hand strokes soothingly down her smooth, dark hair, but even so she feels the subtle trembling, and she wonders which one of them he’s trying to soothe.

His words are barely above a whisper. “Every time I tried to picture moving forward, out of the joke shop and into a house, or starting a f-family,” he stumbles over the word, for the first time she’s ever heard, “it just hurt too much to leave him behind.”

“I'm not asking you to,” she reminds him, softly.

The hand on her hair stills. “I know, Pansy, I know.”

She feels him taking deep, even breaths, a sure sign of him attempting to regain his composure.

“I'm sorry,” he says. “I'm sorry you ever had room to doubt how much I love you. That you thought you had to trick me just to get me to listen.”

“Learned that from your mother,” she jokes.

He doesn't laugh, but he presses a kiss to her temple. “I'm going to do better.”

The words ring in the air like a promise, but Pansy’s not entirely sure it’s enough.

For a few moments more, they sit in silence.

“Now, about this ring you have for me,” George begins. “A bloke has to check on the quality of it before he can accept a proposal.” He gestures towards the box on the floor. “So give it here. I need it, so I can go squealing home to Mum about how I've found myself engaged. When I tell her we want a quick engagement, she's sure to ask me if I've been compromised.” He heaves a big, exaggerated sigh. “Suppose I'll just have to lie.”

She laughs in shock and relief, at the casual way he slays all of her fears in an instant.

“It doesn't have to be quick. We can wait, George.”

“You've waited for me far too long, Miss Parkinson,” he contradicts her, his tone as serious as she’s ever heard it.

The tears well up in her eyes again, this time because she can’t quite believe he’s really going to be hers. And at least partially because she’s just realized she’s going to be the next ‘Mrs Weasley.’

“Besides,” George adds, “I need to get you back for the ambush. So it’s probably best if I marry you, while I think on it, just to keep you close.”

She smiles up at him and whispers, “Okay,” just before he touches his lips to hers.

* * *

She’d suspected it would come to this one day.

Pansy hadn’t known when or how, but she certainly wouldn’t have guessed that it would have been like this. Or that it would be today, of all days.

Angrily, she steps out of the Floo, glancing over to the clock in the corner of the room to confirm that both hands are now pointed to the word ‘Home.’

She stands in the center of the room, hands on her hips, and just waits. Silently.

It doesn’t take long.

The most obnoxious git that has ever gitted walks casually down the stairs, hands in his pocket, his aggravatingly, insufferably, _offensively_ red hair tousled like he’s just woken from a nap.

The bastard.

“Hello, my lovely wife,” he greets her, his grin the exact balance between smugly mischievous and sincerely affectionate. “How was your day?”

She fumes at him. George Fucking Weasley knows perfectly well how her day has gone.

It was shit. It was a Hogsmeade Day, which meant the new shop was overrun with ridiculous, ill-behaved, disrespectful, snot-nosed children, and somehow all of the employees had been given the day off, leaving her to run the store entirely by herself.

“Don’t feel like talking about it, eh?”

When she just taps her foot in fury instead of answering, he nods with fake sympathy. But even George can’t hide that tiniest of smirks that shows his guilt.

The wanker had found a way to tie off the Silencing Charm so that no matter what she did, she couldn’t remove it. Unable to use her voice, she’d had a hard time keeping order in the shop, having to write everything down on paper. She’d finally resorted to using the Antic Amplifier which announces whatever you give it to read with silly giggles, fart sounds, and insults.

So every time she had to tell someone the price of an item, it would say something like, “That’ll be fiiiive,” insert suspiciously juicy fart sound, “knuts, you flufferbrained knobhead.”

Pansy’s patience didn’t just fray; it had snapped, been retied, and spontaneously combusted.

She throws her bag to the floor and launches herself at her husband.

Her legs wrap around his waist and his hands come up to catch her, tangling in her work robes. While she fists her hands in his hair, dragging his head backwards so she can fuse her mouth to his, they both can hear a giggly voice announcing, “HAPPY FUCKING ANNIVERSARY, YOU COCKGOBBLING TWATWAFFLE!”

She’d had to bypass the language restraints to make it say that.

Beneath her, she feels the laugh rising up in George’s chest, and she redoubles her efforts at silencing him with her mouth. When his hands finally discover that she’s bare underneath her robes, she smiles.

If only one of them can make sounds, Pansy’s going to make damn sure George is screaming her name in less than five minutes.

**Author's Note:**

> S&R: Constructive Reviews Welcome (CRW), meaning all reviews welcome, including constructive criticism.
> 
> Special Thank You: To torigingerfox for her work on the banners, and to kanewolfe for her choice to pick my story as her Admin Pick of the favorite story of the competition.


End file.
